


Then and Now

by Emma



Series: The Homecoming Universe [8]
Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-08
Updated: 2012-07-08
Packaged: 2017-11-09 11:04:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/454736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emma/pseuds/Emma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack meets the greatest detective of all time – twice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Dear God, Arthur Conan Doyle is spinning in his grave hard enough to be able to sell electricity back to the grid. And you can choose which Holmes you would like it to be -- my own personal favorite is still Jeremy Brett. And the words *written in italics like this* is mental conversation.

_These two remarkable documents were found in the secure archives of Torchwood Cardiff during its conversion from active base of operations to the Torchwood Museum and Research Center. If it were anyone but my redoubtable ancestors I would dismiss them as second-rate fantasy. As it is… well, let’s just say they have a certain amount of plausibility._

_Donna Francine Davidson-Hart_

_Curator_

_Cardiff_ _, October 2457_

_p.s. To those who will claim that Jack Harkness could not possibly play the part of a Victorian gentleman, I reply that the first job of a con-man is to present the persona his audience expects, and Grandpa Jack is nothing if not a first rate con-man. You should also consider that Doctor Watson has long been rumored to be an unreliable narrator._

_p.p.s. Yes, of course I asked. All I got was a lewd grin from Grandpa Jack and a “some things are just better left alone” lecture from grantad Ianto. They still own the house._

_  
_

**Then: The Luck of the Parringtons**

**Dr. John Watson**

             The events recorded here have never been exposed to the light of day, nor will they be for centuries after all the people involved have departed this mortal world. There are certain things we are not yet prepared to accept or understand, and perhaps it is better that we remain ignorant for a little while longer. Therefore I have instructed my solicitors to send this on to the Torchwood Institute, Cardiff branch, fifty years after my passing.

 *******

            After my dearest friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes retired to the Sussex Downs in 1903 I remained in our rooms in London, living the life of an elderly bachelor or respectable if limited means. My practice was small but steady, and I had the income from some sound investments I had made during those brief periods when I had been considerably more plump in the pocket. There were others such as myself in the city, veterans of India and Afghanistan, who banded together in mutual professional support and friendship, and I spent three or four nights a week at my clubs engaged in pleasant conversation. Every so often, Lestrade, Gregson, or some other of Holmes’s police acquaintances dropped by Baker Street to discuss the latest criminal news, and to inquire after their old competitor and mentor.

             It was a pleasant enough existence but I missed my old friend. Over the years I had grown used to his acerbic wit, his assorted eccentricities, even his abominably incessant violin playing during late-night bouts of ratiocination. I enjoyed the excitement his cases brought into my life, and the opportunity to observe the workings of the keenest mind in Europe at close quarters. I missed our little daily routines, the long leisurely breakfasts over which Holmes would expound on his latest theories about the burn rate of cigar ash or the ingredients in Stradivarius’s varnish formula, or the simple evenings spent in front of the fire, discussing politics and crime with equal consideration.

             Thus, it was with great happiness that I received a telegram from Holmes inviting me for a fortnight’s visit at his small estate. I wired back an enthusiastic acceptance, arranged for a colleague to take over my practice, and, on Friday morning, boarded a train for Eastbourne, that being the closest large town to Holmes’s residence.

             Upon arrival I found that Holmes had arranged for a friendly local doctor to take me up in his dogcart. We passed the trip agreeably discussing our most difficult cases, and it seemed a short time to Holmes’s front door.

             My friend looked the very picture of health. His city pallor had given way to a healthy country flush. Days composed of tending the hives, pottering about in the gardens and taking long walks on the beach had improved his constitution to such an extent that in his early sixties Holmes was much more hale and hearty than he had been a full decade earlier. We shook hands and clasped shoulders and I fancy I saw a glimpse of emotion in my old friend’s eyes.

            “I hope you didn’t mind my not meeting you personally at the station, Watson. When I told doctor Curtis about your arrival, he insisted on bringing you, since he would be in Eastbourne on business this morning. Come. You must be hungry. Train fare is never satisfactory.”

            We sat down to a most excellent lunch of fish stew and freshly-baked bread with honey. Holmes’s appetite showed as much improvement as the rest of him. We lingered over the meal, exchanging news as old friends who have not seen each other for a while are wont to do. He laughed good-naturedly at my tales of the misadventures of our policemen friends, and admitted he kept in touch with both Lestrade and Gregson and sometimes took a hand in guiding their investigations.

           After lunch we took a long walk along the cliffs. Holmes’s house sat on the seaward slope of the downs, with a magnificent view of the channel. On this clear afternoon we could see the village of Fullworth nestling around the calm waters of the harbor and further out, beyond the white chalk headlands, several small boats bobbing gently on the waves. I remarked to Holmes that the place seemed to have great restorative powers.

           “Indeed it does, Watson. I have found a great deal of peace and contentment here.” He looked to the horizon, absorbed in thoughts I could only guess at, then shook himself lightly and smiled. “Come on, Watson, let’s return home. I’ve invited a local friend to join us for dinner. His name is Harold Stackhurst and he runs a coaching establishment for young gentlemen about a half mile away. Good fellow. He was a great deal of help to me when I first arrived. He’s bringing a new teacher he wants me to meet. As we will be four we might play cards after supper.”

           I fell in happily with his proposal. Upon arriving back at the villa I left Holmes to discuss the arrangement of a cold supper with his housekeeper and went upstairs to scrub off the dust of my long journey. I was so pleasantly tired that after my bath I dozed off until Holmes came to tell me his guests had arrived.

           Upon entering the parlor my eyes immediately went to the man standing by the windows. To my physician’s eye he was the most perfect specimen I had ever encountered. Tall, lean, straight of limb, with a chiseled face and twinkling blue eyes, he seemed to have stepped right out of the pages of those dreadful romances that were all the rage among young ladies.

           “There you are, Watson.” Holmes’s amused tone warned me he had noted my fascination. “May I introduce Harold Stackhurst? He befriended me from the first.”

           The schoolmaster had been sitting at the chess table contemplating a possible move. He stood up and approached me with his hand extended. He was a big, bluff fellow, obviously an athlete in his younger days and still exceedingly fit. His handshake was strong and firm.

           “Welcome to Sussex, doctor Watson. I am a great admirer of your literary efforts. To finally meet both the subject and the author is indeed a pleasure.”

           Such sincere flattery could not help but confirm the positive impression created by Holmes’s earlier comments. I exchanged pleasantries with him, but my eyes kept straying to the other man, to whom I had not yet been introduced. Finally, Holmes took pity on my curiosity.

           “And this is Captain Jack Harkness, Watson. An army man, like yourself.”

           “It’s a great honour, doctor Watson.” The man’s voice was quite good and I fancied I could detect the signs of a trained musician. “Count me among your admirers also.”

           “Jack has been kind enough to step in as science master until McPherson arrives from the continent,” Stackhurst said, “which is quite fortunate, as I have a new boarder whose interests lie in that direction.”

           “Tell us over dinner, old chap,” Holmes said. “Watson must be famished, and I am not so far behind.”

           Holmes’s housekeeper had done him proud once again.. A substantial cold supper had been laid out in the small but perfectly appointed dining room. We tucked in with gusto while Stackhurst told us about his new boarder.

           “Viscount Parrington, eldest son and heir of the Earl of Chancton. You might well stare, doctor Watson. I was as surprised as anyone when Mr. Carruthers, the earl’s private secretary, called on me. It seems the boy is mad about engineering, and the earl has decided to let him train for a career. According to Mr. Carruthers, the earl prefers a son in the professions than one living the dissolute life of a wealthy wastrel in London. He tells me those were the earl’s very words.”

           “I believe,” Holmes said sardonically, “that it is possible to do both.”

           Captain Harkness raised his glass to him in a silent toast which Holmes returned. Something in Holmes’s gesture struck me as peculiarly intimate, as if Captain Harkness were someone of long personal acquaintance, yet I was certain Holmes had never mentioned him.

           The evening passed in connivial good humor and it was late in the evening when our guests finally departed. I retired immediately as in spite of my earlier nap I was still feeling the effects of my long train journey and rigorous walk. The bed was comfortable and the room cool and pleasant, and I slept better than I had in months.

           The next day dawned sunny and clear. Holmes and I decided to start with a vigorous stroll on the beach. Climbing down the steep, narrow cliff path left me a bit breathless and Holmes tweaked me about my sedentary habits. We spent a good two hours among the tidal pools, and even took a swim in one of the larger one, Holmes having assured me the beach was usually deserted this early in the morning.

           Finally our stomachs informed us that it was long past the breakfast hour. We dressed and returned to the house to find it full of the homey scents of freshly baked scones and frying bacon.

           We continued in this manner for several days. My own city languor became a thing of the past as I hiked and swam every day and ate plentifully of the local catch and the vegetable garden’s bounty.  On the evening of the fourth day, however, our peace was disturbed by a loud commotion at the front door. It was Stackhurst, and a more different man from the pleasant, cheerful fellow I had met on the first evening of my visit would have been difficult to find. He was followed at a calmer pace by Captain Harkness.

            “A disaster, my dear Holmes! A complete disaster!”

             “Calm yourself, Stackhurst. What in the world has happened?”

             “Parrington! The wretched boy is missing!”


	2. Chapter 2

             Holmes ushered a distraught Stackhurst into the parlour. Once settled into an armchair with a glass of whiskey in hand, he regained some composure.

             “I am so sorry, gentlemen. I assure you, I am not as weak-minded as I must seem to you at this moment.” He took a deep draught. “But the disappearance of Alan Parrington from my establishment could have the direst of consequences. Parents will be most reluctant to entrust their sons to me if they can be so easily taken from my care.”

             “All is not lost yet,” Holmes said. “The facts, my dear Stackhurst.”

             The schoolmaster composed himself with some effort. “Last night a messenger arrived from Parrington House, bringing news of the death of Lord Parrington’s youngest sister, Lady Anne. I am told he was very fond of her. He retreated to his rooms for about thirty minutes, and then came down by the back stairs. He told our cook, Mrs.Lawry, that he was going for a stroll in the grounds. This morning, when he did not show up for breakfast, I went to his rooms. The bed hadn’t been slept in.”

             “Perhaps,” I suggested tentatively, “he has just left for home? If he was close to his sister, he might wish to attend her funeral.  Thoughtless of him not to leave a note, perhaps, but people in the depths of grief do very odd things.”

             “I would have thought the same, Doctor Watson,” Stackhurst replied,” were it not that Jenkins, our grounds man, told me that he overheard an altercation between Lord Parrington and another man in the early hours of this morning. Jenkins resides in our gate house, and he was up and about early. According to him, Lord Parrington sounded extremely agitated. Lowry heard him say _he did this_ and _I will destroy him once and for all_.”

             “And the other man?” Holmes asked. “Could Jenkins give you any description of him?”

             “Very little. The man kept his voice low. Jenkins looked out the kitchen window, which overlooks the road, but it was still dark. All he could see were two silhouettes. One he thinks he can indentify as Parrington; the boy has a distinctive stoop. The other one was much taller and straighter. He was holding Lord Parrington by the shoulders, but the boy shook him off and set down the road. The other man seemed undecided for a moment, but then started after him.”

             “And you are afraid this mysterious visitor might have kidnapped Lord Parrington?” I asked.

             “I suppose.” Stackhurst’s answer was uncharacteristically diffident. “Or…”

             “Come now, Stackhurst, out with it,” Holmes said with a touch of his old impatience. “You cannot expect my help if you are not fully honest with me.”

             The schoolmaster seemed to deflate before our very eyes. He tossed back the last of his whiskey and then jumped up to pace the confines of the parlor like a caged tiger.

             “I was told in confidence by Mr. Carruthers that there was a bitter estrangement between Lord Parrington and his father. The Earl and his countess have lived apart for many years, and Lord Parrington blamed his father for what he saw as his abandonment of his wife. He also disagreed with the Earl about the medical treatment his youngest sister was receiving. Lady Anne was sickly and the prognosis was never good. Lord Parrington felt his father was deliberately not doing enough to help her.”

             “Ah!” Holmes leaned back in his armchair and tented his fingers. “And you fear that the conversation overheard by Jenkins means the boy’s out to punish his father for his sister’s death.”

             “I would like not to think so, Holmes, but… on one or two occasions Lord Parrington was very vocal about his dislike of his father. Lady Anne’s death might have sent him over the edge.”

             “Indeed. The first order of business, then, is to keep Lord Parrington from reaching his father in his present state of mind. Could Jenkins give you the appropriate time he overheard the argument between Parrington and his mysterious visitor?”

             “He could give me the exact time, Holmes. Jenkins is a man of routine, and he is forever glancing at his watch. I was exactly six twenty-two.”

             “So if Parrington set out on foot…”

             “He must have, Mr. Holmes.” Harkness spoke for the first time. “I checked the stables first thing this morning. All of our horses and all the student bicycles are accounted for. I also made inquiries among our neighbours on the pretext on an escaped mare. No horses or indeed any other form of transportation is missing.”

             “Stackhurst, you mentioned Parrington House. The Earl then must be in London for the Parliamentary season?”  At Stackhurst’s nod, Holmes continued. “Well, then, Lord Parrington must have set out for the train at Eastbourne. Even if he was lucky enough to hitch a ride from someone going in that direction he will have missed the morning train. I suggest, Stackhurst, that you set out immediately. A man in a fast gig can overtake a man on foot even if the later has a few hours’ advantage. Even if you don’t, the next train doesn’t leave until four thirty in the afternoon. You will likely find him at the station.”

             It was obvious that Holmes’s words had cheered the school master immensely. “I will take your advice, Holmes. Let’s pray we can find him in time.”

             Harkness started to say something but Holmes cut him off abruptly. It was not uncharacteristic of him – Homes could be exquisitely courteous one minute and unspeakably rude the next – but it startled Harkness into silence, which, I realized, was exactly what Holmes wanted.

             “One more thing, Stackhurst. As Watson here can attest, high-strung people of Parrington’s kind will often lose all steam from one step to the next and fall into a deep lethargy. Some even fall asleep. Keep an eye out as you go.”

             “I will, Holmes. Jack, will you come with me?”

             “I think Captain Harkness would be better employed by searching to road to Southampton,” Holmes said quickly. “It’s not likely, but there is the remote possibility that someone passed him going in the other direction. Parrington may have impulsively decided to go with them and catch the train from there.”

             I pride myself in my ability to control my reactions even under the most difficult conditions, but I must confess that I found it hard not to gape at Holmes’s transparent excuse. It was painfully clear to me that he believed Harkness to be involved in this matter and was protecting the man. Having experienced other instances where Holmes had acted as judge and jury I knew he would have good and sufficient reasons to do so, so I held my tongue.

             “Very well, Holmes. I shall take Murdoch or Hollinstead with me. I shall send someone towards Portsmouth also.”

             “That would be prudent,’ Holmes said. “Go on. I shall lend Harkness my own gig and see him on his way.”

             “I can never thank you enough, Holmes.”

             We all accompanied the school-master to the door and watched as he ran along the path towards his establishment. Once he was out of sight, Holmes turned to the handsome American.

             “Now, Captain Harkness. Will Stackhurst find Lord Parrington on the road to Eastbourne?”

             The sudden cool stillness that descended over the Captain’s features was perhaps more revealing than his usual charming animation. I realized with a start that Captain Jack Harkness was a truly dangerous man, on a par with Holmes himself.

             “I don’t understand, Mr. Holmes.”

             “Jack,” my friend’s voice turned gentle and even a little coaxing. “I don’t approve of Torchwood’s methods, but I understand the necessity of its existence. Where is the boy?”

  


	3. Chapter 3

          Captain Harkness looked deeply into Holmes’s eyes, as if trying to lay bare his innermost thoughts. My friend withstood the scrutiny with his usual self-assurance. After a long period, Harkness seemed satisfied with what he found, and he looked away as he answered Holmes’s question.

             “He’s asleep under one of old Smithson’s apple trees, comfortably covered with his own coat and clearly visible from the road.”

             “How much will be remember?”

             Holmes’s question was met with silence. It was then that I witnessed something so astonishing, so remarkable, that I knew I would remember it and ponder on it for many a long year afterwards.

             Sherlock Holmes grasped Captain Harkness’s chin between his fingers, caressing the man’s lips with his thumb, and turned him so their eyes could meet again. When they spoke again their voices were low and intimate. They had forgotten I was there.

             “Jack, believe me, I am your friend.”

             “I feel as if I should remember you.”

             “A memory of things yet to come.” Holmes said whimsically. “I can’t tell you more. It’s one of those timey-wimey things.”

             The effect of the nonsensical words on the Captain was remarkable. Blood drained from his face, and his eyes blazed, then went dull. He looked like a man who had been dealt a mortal blow.

             “You know him?”

             “Oh, Jack… no! How stupid of me.” Holmes took the Captain’s hands in his. “You yourself told me about him, when you were explaining… what happened to me. No more about that. We can’t run the risk. Come back into the parlor. Please. Watson, you too.”

             Harkness took a deep breath and followed Holmes. I trailed behind, torn between curiosity and reticence. In spite of the public aspect of this matter, whatever was occurring between Holmes and the Captain was of a much different nature, one into which I would be most reluctant to inquire. But I had been invited, and it was impossible to break the habit of complying with Holmes’s wishes.

             “Parrington won’t remember much about last night.” Harkness took his favored spot by the window. “Or anything else for that matter.”

             I couldn’t contain myself any longer. “Holmes, for Heaven’s sake, what in the world is going on here?”

             “The Parrington family is of the oldest nobility of England.” Holmes addressed himself to me, but kept his eyes on the Captain. “Often these ancient families have secrets. Mr. Harkness belongs to an organization called Torchwood, established by the late Queen to protect the Empire against threats that cannot be defeated using traditional methods. It seems as if the Parringtons have come under their scrutiny.”

             “Not Torchwood, Mr. Holmes. Mine.” Captain Harkness smiled grimly. “You seem to know a great deal about me, sir. Some of the things you allude to I would have believed to be known only to myself in this time and place. But since you do, and you call yourself my friend, I will tell you the story.”

             I sank back into my armchair, eager to learn the meaning of the odd events that had transpired. The story I heard that day still remains the most fantastical of my experience. If not for the fact that Holmes seemed to accept it without a qualm I would have consigned the teller to a mental hospital for treatment.

             “As you say, the Parringtons are one of the oldest families in England, but until a few hundred years ago they were of little renown. They farmed their acres and lived in genteel poverty.  Then everything changed from one day to the next. The Parringtons’ fortunes flourished. Title followed title, until Queen Anne bestowed on them the Earldom of Chancton. As you can imagine, rumours flew. Most of them were centered around a small meteor which the Parringtons displayed prominently in their library at Chancton Close.”

             “Ah, yes. The Luck of the Parringtons.” Holmes snorted. “And the truth, Jack?”

             “The Honourable Percival Parrington was returning home from the local tavern after a night of debauchery when he encountered a spectacular meteor display. One of the pieces landed in a field nearby. Being of a scientific bent, he decided to investigate. Imagine his surprise when he found, not a piece of half-melted iron but a ship.”

             I started to scoff at his fancifulness, but Holmes’s hand on my shoulder silenced me.

             “The being Parrington found was an Akhkarian. It was injured, but alive. Parrington took it home. I believe he saw it as a specimen at first.”

             “What changed his mind?” Holmes asked.

             “Akhkarians have two peculiar talents. One, they can lift an entire language from the mind of others. By the time they reached Chancton Close it probably spoke the King’s English as well as you or doctor Watson. The second is the ability to manipulate probabilities. They can examine an action, predict all its possible outcomes, and assign an exact percentage to the likelihood of each outcome actually happening.” He must have noticed our confusion, because he pressed on with his explanation. “Think of it this way. You have a six horse race. A man with enough reliable information could make a good prediction as to the outcome. Imagine being able to do that correctly and to the last decimal point every time. And even in some instance to infinitesimally tilt the playing field in your own favor.”

             “Good God.” I was momentarily dazzled by the possibilities until common sense reasserted itself. “And what would this being want in return?”

             “Your emotions, freely given. An Akhkarian needs emotions the same way we need water.”

             Harkness moved away from the window and sat down on the settee, gratefully accepting the whiskey glass my friend held out.

             “I find it hard to believe you can accept this without question, Mr. Holmes.”

             “I told you before, Jack. I am your friend.” Holmes seemed calm but I could detect the minute evidence of a powerful emotion tightly controlled. “Are Akhkarians dangerous?”

             “Good God, no. As long as you treat them kindly and allow free play of your emotions while in their presence they are gentle as lambs and not inclined to effort.”

             “So why is the Parrington boy so violently opposed to its existence?” They both looked at me with surprise. “Surely what the groundskeeper heard him say applies equally to this creature as to the Earl!”

             Harkness tipped his glass in my direction. “Well caught, doctor Watson. The problem is his mother. Not every Parrington wife is told the truth about the basis of her husband’s family’s fortune, but at least a few have, and some have actually befriended their guest. The current Earl confided in his countess, trusting her loyalty and common sense. However, she was raised by a mother with some very peculiar religious ideas, which the daughter inherited. When her own daughter was born ill, the countess became convinced that the Parrington line was cursed by God for harboring a demon. The reality that her son is perfectly healthy eludes her.”

             He sighed, leaning his head against the back of the settee and closing his eyes. “Unfortunately, an Akhkarian’s looks… Let’s just say your first reaction would not be to offer it tea and biscuits.”

             “What are you going to do?” Holmes asked.

             “I have already spoken to the Earl. The poor man was heartbroken by his daughter’s imminent death, and fears for his son’s sanity. The boy and his mother will be encouraged to forget the Akhkarian ever existed. I will take him somewhere safe. I fear the luck of the Parringtons has run out.”

             “But how can they forget?” I asked. “Unless you have some way of altering people’s memories…”

             “Sometimes, Watson, I forget you are a most able theorist in your own right.” Holmes smiled at me with true affection. “But I think Jack is going to have to leave it at that. Risks with time run in both directions.”

             With those cryptic words, Holmes stood up and held out a hand to the Captain. “You must be on your way, then.”

             “Yes.” Harkness set down the glass and took the offered hand. “Poor Stackhurst will be left without a science-master. What will he think?”

             “You will send him a telegram from Southampton. Tell him you did not find Parrington. Spin him a tale about your father’s solicitors asking you to return to New York immediately on an important family matter. You’re good at that.”

             Harkness laughed freely for the first time. “That I am.”

             We walked to the door once more. I waited by the stairs, letting Holmes say his goodbyes privately. There was something about these two men that forbade vulgar curiosity. They stood facing each other in silence for a long moment, then Harkness took Holmes’s hands and brought them to his lips.

             “I wish…”

             “Yes. But we are out of time, you and I. Go.”

             “Good bye, then. Good bye, Doctor Watson.”

             We waited by the open door until he had disappeared from sight. As Holmes closed the door, I thought I heard him whisper one last thing.  We never spoke of Captain Harkness and the Luck of the Parringtons again,  and I never inquired about the meaning of his words.

             _Remember me to Ianto._


	4. Chapter 4

**Now: The Stradivarius Treasure**

**Ianto Jones**

         It shouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone reading this that Jack Harkness is an exhibitionist. No, let me rephrase that: Jack doesn’t believe that there is anything shameful about sex. Our twenty-first century reluctance to dish the intimate dirt over coffee and biscuits honestly bewilders him. So I was not surprised that he insisted I tell this story _with all the good bits left in_. I don’t suppose it will matter much after several centuries.  
  


                                                                           *******

            It started when Gwen, Andy and John came down with Hexalg flu. Not dangerous, but between the projectile vomiting and the green all-over flush, it was clear they were not going to make any public appearances for a while. Then Tom’s mother died suddenly while on vacation, and he and Martha had to fly out to Spain to handle the arrangements. That left Jack to hold the fort by himself.

           After our little adventure in Annwfn, I’d been spending my days training with Teacher. It was a hard slog; I was trying to bend my adult brain around concepts of time and space that were the absolute opposite of what I had internalized through forty plus years as a human being. I needed to process all the information. When Jack came home one night reeking of blood, I informed him I was going back into active duty. The fact that he accepted without a single argument told me how exhausted he really was.

           Everything was quiet for a couple of days. All we had to do was chase down Weevils. Gwen, Andy and John had turned a lovely shade of emerald – Jack said it meant that they were past the contagion stage – and were living on liquids and digestive biscuits. Rhys was home keeping up the fiction of Mom being away on business but kept a steady flow of Mrs. Bolton’s home-made meals coming through. John even took time to guide me through basic Vortex mathematics.

           Then suddenly Mainframe started to report large energy spikes at random times and places. Jack and I were kept on the run, but we had damn little to show for it. Usually spikes that big meant movement in or out of the Rift, but whatever was doing it left no evidence behind. Police reports showed no surges in the number of missing persons or in unusual sightings reports. John swore Mainframe was sulking because she couldn’t detect any patterns in the residual energy after an event, either in strength or frequency.

           The evening of the third day the spikes clustered around an area in Wyndham Road where most of the houses were under renovation. One of them lasted long enough to pinpoint the site: a beautiful Victorian terraced cottage with flower boxes on the windows and a neat front garden.

           The street was deserted. We could hear music coming from one of the houses at the far end, near Wellington. With all the construction equipment and supplies laying about it was likely that there would be some sort of police presence in the area on a regular basis. Jack parked the SUV right against the gate, with the Torchwood logo clearly visible from the road.

           _*Can you sense anything?*_

_*One person. Shallow breath and erratic heartbeat. There seems to be something wrong with his head. His? His. Unconscious?*_

Jack’s face twisted. There was a good chance we would find a new inmate for Flat Holm. He would have rather had an Ixen queen in full brooding plumage or a squad of pissed-off Judoon.

           We went into the house. It was in the finishing stages; the smell of fresh paint was still strong but there was carpeting underfoot. I tried the light switch by the door and the Florentine chandelier over the staircase came on, casting a soft glow on the body of the man sprawling face down on the steps. There was blood on his hair and the back of his jacket.

           Jack knelt over him and palpated the area. * _Not too bad. He’s stopped bleeding. Won’t even need stitches. Help me turn him over_ *

           I knelt by the man’s head and cradled it, keeping it immobile as Jack turned him. The sudden blast of recognition and shock rocked me back on my heels.

          * _Jack?*_

_*Remember Martha’s dinner party when we were all playing that which-historical-characters-you-would-like-to-have-an-orgy-with game? Well, one of your wishes just came true*_

I looked down at the man on my lap. Too many sharp angles and a prominent nose and thin lips kept him from traditional good looks, but even unconscious he was compelling. I ran my fingers down his arm and took his hand in mine. It was large, with a wide palm. There were a few stains and burns on the thin, elegant fingers. I looked up at Jack, mouth hanging open.

           * _Ianto Jones, meet Sherlock Holmes_ *

           * _You’ve met him before_ * Jack was usually quite open about all the people he had met and… “Like Estelle?”

           “No. I met him briefly when he was in his sixties and already retired. He helped me with something. But he talked to me as if he knew me already. He even knew about the Doctor. I have been expecting him for decades, I think.” He stood up. “Let’s get him to the Hub.”

            “No, Jack, we can’t. If you met him in the past, he has to have gone back at some point, right?” He nodded. “We have to limit his access to information, especially about Torchwood. His time is full of powerful people who would have loved Yvonne Hartman. A single small slip on his part could change the future of Europe, hell, of the whole world. We could set off the kind of timeline conflict that even the Doctor couldn’t fix.”

              “You’re right. All right, we’ll take him to our place.”

             We hoisted him up and made out way carefully back to the SUV. I sat in the back, still holding Holmes’s head on my lap. Jack contacted the Hub while he drove. John reported that the energy spikes had died down completely.

             “Not even a burp. Mainframe is going around in circles.”

             “Let’s give her something to do, then. I need you to figure out a way to send someone through the Rift to a specific location without a wrist strap. Consider every resource.” He turned briefly and smiled at me. “Including our resident proto-TARDIS.”

             “Any specific reason?”

             “We found someone at the site. He still has a lot of history to make, John. We need to find a way to send him home.”

             “All right. When you get here...”

             “We’re not going back to the Hub. We need to him keep him as isolated as possible. Put me on speaker, will you?” He waited for John’s go-ahead. “Gwen, call London. I’m activating emergency plan Alpha-6. You got the keys, missy. Don’t wreck the car.”

             “I’ll do my best to live up to your example, tad.” Gwen’s deadpan answer made Jack snort. “I’ll get Mickey down here too. Do we get to know what this is about?”

             “John will fill you in. I’ll call tomorrow.” He ended the call. “How is our guest?”

             “Awake. Listening.” I pressed my hand to Holmes’s chest. “No, don’t sit up yet. You got hit on the head. Sudden movement may not be the best idea right now.”

             “Where am I?”

             “Cardiff.”

             “What year?” He made an impatient sort of noise when we remained silent. “Gentlemen, I am in a moving vehicle, but I cannot hear either horses or rails. One of you spoke to two different people neither of whom is present. One of them was a woman, yet his words implied she would be in charge of your organization while he was away. It is not difficult to deduce that I have somehow crossed either space or time. You say I am in Cardiff and I was in Cardiff before I woke up here. That leaves only time.”

             “Face it, Ianto, he can think rings around either one of us.” Jack laughed.

             “Indeed. Exactly as advertised.”  I rubbed the back of my neck. “Mr. Holmes, I need to ask a question but I am having trouble finding a way to phrase it without breaking a large number of rules. What year was it…”

             “Eighteen ninety-three.”

             “Records say that in eighteen ninety-three you were living somewhere else under a different name. What were you doing in Cardiff?”

             “I will answer that question if you explain who you are and why you would keep records on me.”

             "We can do that after we get your wound treated," Jack said.  "We're home.” 

            He maneuvered the SUV into the garage and into its designated spot. I waited until he had turned the engine off, and then helped Holmes sit up. He let Jack help him out of the SUV and held on until he was more or less steady on his feet. He looked around the garage.

             “Horseless carriages?”

             “These days we call them cars.”

             Holmes’s reaction to the lift was only a raised eyebrow and a speculative look. We rode up in silence. It wasn’t until we entered the flat that he spoke again.

             “You have the better of me, gentlemen. You seem to know who I am, but I do not know you.”

             “I am Captain Jack Harkness and this is my partner Ianto Jones.” Jack ushered him into the living area. “Let’s get you cleaned up and…”

             He stopped as he realized Holmes was not listening. Our visitor was staring open-mouthed at the spectacular night time view beyond the French doors.

             “Is that…”

             “Cardiff. Yes. Welcome to the twenty-first century, Mr. Holmes.”


	5. Chapter 5

           Holmes came out of the guest room wearing my pyjamas and dressing gown and looking much the better for a steaming hot shower and some paracetamol. Looking at him I felt a pull I had never felt for any man except Jack. Not a casual attraction, but a visceral heat that under other circumstances I would have done my damndest to satisfy.

  _*And what’s stopping you?*_

_*Besides a committed relationship with you? Everything we know about him says he’s asexual*_

_*Bollocks. Trust the expert. There’s a fusion bomb waiting to go off under all that ice. And our relationship? I am your One for as long as we both live. You are my partner, my center, and I know I am yours. Did you think that would change because you chose to take someone to bed?*_

             I disengaged, sending Jack a kiss and getting a very vivid visual in return. The bloody man has a magnificent imagination. Taking a deep breath, I schooled my face into its best butler expression and turned to Holmes. “I’m sorry. I was distracted. I’ve made us something to eat. I know it’s late, but I’m sure you must be hungry.”

             “A little, yes. I missed lunch. And dinner, I suppose.” He hesitated. “I know what I’m going to ask is a great impertinence on such short acquaintance, but… when Captain Harkness said you were partners, he meant it on a personal sense, did he not?”

             “Yes.” I gestured towards the teapot. “Would you like me to pour you a cup?”

             “If you would, please. It must be difficult keeping your colleagues in the dark.”

             It took me a few seconds to understand what he was really asking. “That isn’t a problem, Mr. Holmes. In this time same sex relationships are quite legal. Jack and I could even marry if we wanted to.”

             He had even better control over his face than I had, but he couldn’t quite control the slight tremor that shook his hands. Jack had been right. There was a great deal of emotion buried inside the ice. Maybe I wanted to be the one who blasted it out.

             Just then Jack bounced in, wearing the same thing I was; sweatpants and t-shirt. On purpose, of course, and not only because he wanted to test his hypothesis about Holmes’s libido. Jack wanted answers and he would use every tool at hand to get them.

             “Sorry I took so long, Ianto. I’ll set the table, shall I?”

             I nodded and went back to the kitchen, bringing out the chicken stew Mrs. Bolton had left for us to heat up and a plain green salad. Jack was selecting a bottle of wine from the fridge.  Holmes was watching us carefully, as if trying to work out some particularly thorny problem. As I set down the food, Jack patted my waist and I tangled my hand in his hair, stroking gently. His soft laugh and mental * _tease*_ told me he understood exactly what I was doing, and approved.

             “Sit down, Mr. Holmes.” Jack poured three glasses of wine. “We can talk while we eat.”

             “Thank you. I am interested in finding about those records you have been keeping.”

             I laughed as I walked to the bookcase and pulled out a book – while carefully pushing the other two behind the encyclopedia. I brought it to Holmes, who stared down at the cover with a look of mixed resignation and outrage.

             “This is our record, Mr. Holmes. Doctor Watson’s stories are still very popular.” I sat down and served myself some chicken and salad. “If you turn to the end, you will see that this volume ends with your going over Reichenbach Falls in eighteen ninety one.”

             Holmes saluted me with his wine glass then drained it. “And so your question. Foolish of me to even return to Britain at this time, but the problem was intriguing.”

             “Care to share?” Jack asked.

             “After I managed to climb out of the falls, I made my way to Italy. As you probably know,” he thumped the book with some distaste, “I am an amateur violinist. To many of us who also have a scientific bent, the matter of Stradivarius’s varnish formula has always been a matter for curiosity. I decided to visit a friend of mine, Pietro Gravina, Marchese di Palmieri… You look startled, Mr. Jones.”

             “We are acquainted with several descendants of the Marchese, Mr. Holmes, on the Branciforte side of the family.”

             “It is a rather bountiful family tree, is it not? The Marchese owned one of the only three Stradivarius guitars in existence, the Aragonesa, and years before, when we met at University, he had offered to let me study it. Imagine my dismay when I arrived in Rome to find that the Aragonesa had been stolen.”

             “And you set out to find the thief?”

             “No, Captain Harkness. The thief was well known. Richard Bassingstoke, a transplanted Londoner with a penchant for high stakes whist and very bad luck.”

             “So you set out to retrieve the guitar?” I asked, pouring out the last of the wine into our glasses. As I handed Holmes his, I let my fingers touch his wrist briefly.

             “Indeed. It turns out Bassingstoke was something of a Stradivarius expert. He also seemed to be a gullible man. There is an old legend about Stradivarius getting his varnish formula from a strange old man who asked for nothing in exchange except to hide a small gold tablet inside one of the instruments. The legend says that the tablet is a map leading to a fabulous Roman treasure.”

             “Don’t tell me,” Jack grinned. “In Wales?”

             “Bassingstoke certainly thought so. He hared back to Britain without even attempting to cover his tracks. I found him at the home he had rented here in Cardiff.” Holmes rubbed his eyes. “It was the oddest sight I had ever beheld to that moment, gentlemen. The door was open. When I walked in I could hear a high-pitched noise coming from the upstairs, as if someone were scrapping metal on metal. As the noise reached its highest pitch a bright light illuminated the whole room… Ah. I see this is familiar to you.”

             “Yes, Mr. Holmes.” Jack hesitated, then plunged on. “There is a Rift in time and space that runs through Cardiff. It is our job to police it. It’s how you got here, although we are not yet clear about the exact mechanism. What you heard and saw is the Rift opening and closing.”

             Holmes examined us in silence for a while. “If I were not here, and that…” he waved towards the French windows, “were not there, I would call you mad. To continue. I went up the stairs. As I reached what I knew to be the study I could hear two men arguing. From the corridor I could see part of the interior of the study. Bassingstoke was sitting behind the desk, holding the tablet. He seemed furious. There was another man, whom I could not see. I heard him say _I gave you no more and no less than what you wanted_. Bassingstoke screamed in rage and threw the tablet at the other man. The sound started building up again. It became so high-pitched that I feared for my hearing, so I ran. I was near the bottom of the stairs when I saw the light forming in the entrance hall, and I felt someone rush past me. A few seconds later someone else, I assume Bassingstoke, coshed me on the back of the head and pushed me into the light. And here I am.”

             “Can you remember any details about the tablet?”

             “Gold, about the size of a cigarette case, but slimmer. It fitted in Bassingstoke’s palm. It was very elaborately engraved. There were four green stones I would take to be emeralds at all four corners, and something in the center resembling the Austrian eagle.”

             Jack brought up his wrist and pushed a few buttons on the strap. “Like this?”

             As the image formed above the table, Holmes leaned forward and passed his hand through it several times. Then he sat back with a sigh. “I seem to have fallen into one of Mr. Verne’s scientific romances. Yes, very like that.”

             “It’s the Rindi.” Jack sounded awed. “The genealogical record of the Rindai royal families. It sets the correct lines of succession for all the four Monarchies, and the rules for the Exchange of Thrones. It was stolen centuries ago. The Rindai would pay a man’s weight in anything you named to get it back.”

             He stood up. “I have to talk to John about this. If someone is holding the Rindi for ransom we could find ourselves in the middle of a dynastic war. He knows them better than I do.” He dropped a kiss on my head as he passed me. “Don’t wait up.”

             Holmes stared at Jack’s back until he disappeared into the office, then turned to me. “If I am wrong, my earlier impertinence will seem nothing more improper than tea time conversation in a duchess’s salon, but I cannot help but wonder. Have you both been flirting with me?”

             “Yes.”

             “Why? Is it common among couples in this time to… venture outside?”

             I considered all my options and discarded most of them at once. As Jack had said,  this man could think rings around both of us. Only the truth would do.

             “Not for us. Tonight was the first time I have ever felt anything for a man other than Jack. I talked it over with him and he encouraged me. He is a bit infatuated with you.”

             He tapped the book. “Based on this?”

             More honesty. I would have to be careful. “No. He’s met you before.”

             “Impossible. I would remember him.”

             “Time travel can play disturbing tricks. You will meet Jack in your future. He has met you in his past. You do not know him now. He will not know you then.” I grinned at him. “Would you like some more paracetamol?”

             He snorted. “It might help. However, that does explain his instructions about finding a way to send me back.” I nodded. “And you?”

             “I think that doctor Watson was naïve about some facets of your character.”

             He roared with laughter. “Poor John. Irene Adler indeed.” Just as suddenly, he grew somber. “I knew early my desires were… different. I also knew I could not play the game so many men I knew played, one life in public, another in private, and everyone suffering. At least by staying alone I was making only myself unhappy.”

             “And now?”

             “When I go back, I will live as I have lived. You are offering me a chance to live as I would like to, without guilt or fear, if only for a little while.”

             I stood up and held out my hand. “Come to bed, Sherlock.”

             “If we… Jack?”

             “He will do as you wish. But I will say the experience would be worth it.”

             He looked at me steadily, then reached for my hand. “Yes."


	6. Chapter 6

             He was inexperienced, and hesitant, and oh so willing.

             He held himself still as I removed the dressing gown. I felt his shiver as I stroked lightly along the ridge of his cheekbones and ran my thumb over his lips.  His breath hitched as my fingertips traced down his throat and came to a stop on the first button of the pyjama top.

             “I feel a fool,” he whispered. “I don’t know what to do or even how to feel.”

             I brushed my lips over his. “Remind me to tell you about my first time with Jack. After.”

             I unbuttoned the top and pushed it off his shoulders and let it drift to the floor. He was lean, all sinew and muscle that rippled under my palms as I stroked his back from shoulders to waist.  I brought my hands around to trace the elegant Y of hair that ran from his nipples down to his groin and let my fingers slide underneath the waistband of the pyjama bottoms. One tug on the drawstring and they slid down to the floor. His head lolled back and a small _oh_ escaped him.

             I knelt at his feet and helped him with his shoes and socks. Once he was completely nude I sat back on my heels and looked him over. He was beautifully shaped, long and slender, with a slightly furry sac. I grinned up at him and he gasped and closed his eyes.

             He kept them closed until he felt my hands run up the inside of his legs, kneading in small circles. The slight flinch reminded me of my own first taste of a man’s hands, Jack’s expert hands, and I pressed a kiss to his inner thigh. He trembled as I moved closer to his groin, and he growled as my hands ignored his erection and stroked outside and around to cup his buttocks.  I licked each hipbone, tracing them with my tongue, and then stood up.

             “And so to bed.”

             He smiled uncertainly as he slid under the duvet I held up. “Are we… is it allowed to laugh at moments like this?”

             “Oh yeah.” I stripped off quickly and slid in after him. “We are allowed to do anything we want.”

             “Then I want to do this.”

             I found myself flat on my back. I curled my hand on the back of his neck and pulled him down. His mouth was hard and hungry, and the initial awkwardness gave way to passion as we devoured each other. It was delicious and perfect and if we didn’t slow down it would be over in minutes. Grabbing him around the waist, I rolled us over until he was under me with my legs on either side of his.

             “It’s not a race,” I said as I licked his jaw. “Tonight we have all the time in the world.”

             I moved down his body, sucking and nipping. I applied everything Jack had taught me to push Sherlock slowly upwards until he was writhing, hands gripping at the sheets to anchor himself. When I finally took him in my mouth he screamed my name, his whole body arching off the bed. I swallowed him whole, swirling my tongue around and around, slurping up his juices. I kept his hips pinned down; the forced immobility seemed to make him even more frenzied. He fought me for control, but I had been trained by a master and eventually he gave in, letting me do whatever I wanted, moaning as I cupped him then trailed a finger between his buttocks to rub lightly over his opening. He shook as he came, head thrown back, sobbing and gasping for air.

             I didn't have anything to worry about. When his eyes opened, they went straight to my groin, and his hands followed. He explored me all over, front and back. Finally, finally, his fingers wrapped around my erection. I moaned and jerked as he tugged.

             “Teach me.” I arched an eyebrow, daring him to put his desire into words. “What you did, I want to do it to you. Drive you mad.”

             I moved over him on all fours. “Are you sure?”

             He wrapped his legs and arms around me and tried to throw me off balance. I obliged him. We ended up as we had started, with me flat on my back and Holmes looming over me. He licked his lips in anticipation.

             “Here starteth the first lesson,” he whispered as he dove for my neck.

             We both learned that night; he because he was discovering himself, and I because I finally understood what Jack meant when he said nothing could change between us. Jack’s presence in my mind and my soul grounded me; knowing that Jack loved me allowed me to love and cherish Sherlock.

             I woke up to the sound of running water and Sherlock cuddled against me. He had been awake for a while. In the light of day, he seemed more uncomfortable, more uncertain. He tried to move away but I wouldn’t let him.

             “Are you all right?”

             “Captain Harkness… Jack… didn’t come to bed last night.”

             “He wouldn’t unless he was invited. Jack can be exquisitely courteous in matters of sex.” I noticed the slight flush running up his neck to his cheekbones. “Why, Mr. Holmes. You were hoping he would!” Feeling mischievous, I whispered, “Shall we join him in his bath?”

             The flush ran all the way to his ears. “It would be acceptable?”

             I kissed him until we were both panting. “Jack would be overjoyed. Come on.”

             He tried to grab the dressing gown but I wouldn’t let him. Jack was in the shower, and as usual, clouds of steam had fogged all the mirrors. When I opened the shower door, he gave me his usual lazy morning grin; then he looked past me and his whole face lit up.

             I pressed a kiss to his throat. “We thought you wouldn’t mind sharing the hot water.”

             He wrapped his arm around my waist and pulled me tight. He offered his other hand to Sherlock in a gesture that asked rather than demanded. Sherlock studied us for a few seconds, then placed his hand in Jack’s and allowed Jack to pull him into the shower.

             “Did Ianto make you happy last night?”

             Sherlock blushed again, but he held Jack’s eyes. “Yes.”

             Jack smiled sweetly. “ Will you let me try to make you both happy this morning?”

             He got a small nod, and proceeded to make the most of it.  From bath to bed, Jack turned our bodies into a feast for his delectation, and at the same time gave himself over to us for our pleasure. One by one he peeled off Sherlock’s fears and doubts until all that was left was Sherlock’s innate curiosity and his need to experience those feelings he had spent his whole life suppressing. And he showed me how passion could multiply if those involved loved wholeheartedly. At the end, Sherlock cradled in my arms as Jack entered him from behind, my hands holding on to both of them, my mouth filled with Sherlock’s tongue, I finally, truly, surrendered to Jack – and accepted his own surrender, given freely so many years before.

             Reality intruded a few hours later in the shape of a call from John. Jack put it on speaker. Andy had managed to trace the Rindi. It had been put up for private auction in one of Cardiff’s poshest private galleries. When Jack offered to go back to the Hub, he snorted.

             “Please. Of the two, you were the better con artist but I was the better thief. By several light years. Andy and I will handle it. Stay put and baby-sit your guest. Oh crap. Hold on a minute, will you?” He paused and we could hear Andy in the background yelling at someone to get out of the bloody water and John rumbling in his most threatening voice. “Sorry. There’s nothing much going on and the London kids are having a boat race in the fountain. Someone decided it would be just dandy to use the sub-etheric resonator as a stopwatch. By the way, I think I have your solution, but it will take a while to implement.”

             “How long a while?”

             “Maybe three months. I have to machine and calibrate some parts.”

             Jack grinned down at us, sprawling naked on the messy sheets. “Oh,  I think three months will be perfect.”

 

                                                          *******

 

            A few months after Sherlock left us we received a visit from a solicitor. The poor man was bewildered, and most apologetic, thinking he was being used to take the piss out of two strangers. He told us his grandfather had left an envelope to be delivered to Captain Jack Harkness and Mr. Ianto Jones. It was to be delivered exactly on the date specified on the back on the envelope.

             Inside, there was a deed to a home in the Sussex Downs, and a long letter. Jack still keeps it in his memory box. What it says is none of your business.

             The date was January 6th. It was Sherlock Holmes’s birthday.


End file.
